


15+ Times Connor Was Comforted The Human Way and One Time He Returned the Favor

by ohmyvalar



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Basically heartwarming little moments between Connor and the cast, Can mostly be read as gen up to the last few chapters, Drabble, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Translation, chinese to english translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 6,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14977025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyvalar/pseuds/ohmyvalar
Summary: Connor finds some friends (and family) for himself.-This is a translation of the amazing x.w (ID:xw925 on Lofter) - who was sporting enough to allow me to translate this for her! -'s piece.





	1. Protection

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [多次Connor以人类的方式被安慰，一次他礼尚往来](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/389975) by x.w. 



> This is my first time translating a full-length piece, so there's probably like 919229 errors?? Concrit is welcome;;

1\. Protection 

It wasn't the first time someone had threatened to “break his plastic head”, or pushed him up against a wall in a violent manner (there was Hank, for one), but his diagnostic systems still emitted a warning the second his back and head collided heavily with the glass wall. 

Before he had the chance to open his mouth, two police officers were dragging the emotionally agitated young man off of him. 

Captain Fowler walked towards them (with a stern face on - should he be apologising for this?). He spared Connor only a glance before turning to face the already subdued assailant. 

“You gigolo bastards,” the man (45 Y.O., Criminal Record: Domestic Violence, Disruption of Android Movement Parades, Currently Unemployed.) shouted. “You're actually letting this son-of-a-bitch piece of plastic do whatever he wants here.”

Connor attempted to point out that androids didn't have a concept of a “maternal figure”. But Fowler was a step ahead of him. “I’ll give you some personal advice,” he said, “Before you open that bitching mouth of yours, I hope you'll consider this very carefully: this ‘piece of plastic’ is on the same team as these “gigolos” here. Now, I'm going to politely ask you to leave - and I hope you'll cooperate like a good citizen.”

The man shut his mouth. He glared at Connor with what the Lieutenant might call a “dirty” look all the way up till leaving the office. 

“I wish you a pleasant day.” Connor extended in farewell. The man struggled fumingly between the two police officers holding him captive. 

Connor swept the remainder of his gaze across the detective beside him. It was time to apologise. “I am sorry for the displeasure I caused, Captain. It was not my intention to -”

“Are you alright?”

Connor blinked. He had not anticipated this question. That man had lacked the trained musculature to inflict any substantial damage to an android’s biological components. “I am well, Captain. Functional operations positive, persistent damage negative.”

He sensed that his answer was not what the other man wanted. But Fowler only nodded at him. “The next time you meet a scumbag like that, arrest them directly - got it?” He waved a dismissing hand, interrupting whatever else Connor had to say. “Get Anderson here now. I want to see his ass sitting on that office chair within ten minutes.”

“As you wish, Captain.” Connor inclined his head. Fowler strode towards his office, pulled the glass door open, and stopped before he stepped through the doorframe.

“Hey, Connor.”

“Yes, Captain?”

Fowler raised his instant coffee-filled paper cup. ”It’s a little late, but - welcome to the team.”


	2. Warmth

2\. Warmth

“Do you _like_ getting drenched?” The police officer (Deskplate: Collins) asked. They were standing in front of an apartment reported for a potential murder case, awaiting backup. _Traffic Conditions positive. Lieutenant to arrive within 15 minutes. Night, Drizzling Rain, 50.9 Fahrenheit, Wind Strength: Second Degree._

“No.” Connor replied truthfully. “I do not have a ‘preference’ for rain. But rainwater does not inconvenience the majority of androids. Cases of short circuiting are very rare, if that is your concern.”

She was a petite officer, mother to two children (Aged 7 and 12 respectively). Her experience with the force exceeded a decade, which perhaps explained how she managed to be intimidating despite having to gaze up at him. 

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in silence for another five minutes. Connor noticed the policewoman lifting her head to watch him from time to time. He blinked, twice, to clear the droplets from his optical biocompartments. Raindrops cascaded down his soaked hair and chin, forming a tiny stream of water that slid down onto his jacket. If he felt his functionality inconvenienced, he would deal with it. Regardless of degree. 

“... You know what, I've had enough. I don't care if you're waterproof or fireproof or _anything-proof_.” She announced, walking behind the patrol car’s trunk and looking through its contents. She pulled a bright yellow police-use raincoat out of the mess, stuffing it into his hands with a demeanor that brooked no argument. “Even if it's for my conscience - just take it. We aren't lacking resources to the point that we have to abuse our colleagues.” 

Connor was puzzled. 

“You are not ‘abusing’ me, Officer. My mechanical durability can ensure service support under harsh circumstances.” 

She glared at him like he was a toddler pushing cauliflowers off his plate. Connor decided to obey. “Very well, Officer. I will respect your wishes.” 

Hank laughed for a full minute upon arriving at the scene. “You look like a life-size little rubber duck.” He commented, his breath wheezing out of him. “CyberLife must be _really_ proud now.” Connor could detect a certain satisfaction in his words. “It's time someone called a stop to your shitty habits. Let me tell you, walking around unsheltered in the rain isn't even a _little_ bit cool. Doesn't matter if you're an android or not.” 

“Lieutenant, looking ‘cool’ is not my objective. This is irrelevant to -”

“Whatever you say, Connor.” Hank shrugged, buttoning up the topmost button on the android’s plastic raincoat. “No one wants your blue-blood ass to freeze.” 

Connor gave up on trying to correct them. Later, Hank roughly wiped his hair dry with a towel in the same way he did for Sumo, with a rug draped over his shoulders and knees.

He didn't insist again that androids could feel neither cold nor warmth. Or point out that the woolen rug might obstruct his machinery’s cooling process. Despite its divergence from the result his diagnostic systems produced, Connor decided that this was the better choice.


	3. Handholding

3\. Handholding

“Anyone know some goddamn Japanese? Huh?” Person, Officer, asked. He was holding the hand of a bawling little girl from where he sat in the office beside Collins. “She's lost. Japanese tourist. Won’t listen to anything, doesn't want any balloon animals or candies… If anyone could speak Japanese…” 

All of a sudden, Connor found himself the center of everyone's attention. 

“I can use up to 4200 languages, including Japanese.” He suggested, “If necessary, I could sing in Japanese.”

It took 7 minutes and 50 seconds to calm the girl down. He asked for her name. Her parents’ circumstances. Her age. Her favorite food. 

“My name is Connor.” He told her. “The police here will help you.” 

Her tiny, tear-streaked fingers clung tightly to his wrist. He looked at the hand, while she glanced up into his face. 

As he softly hummed Sakura to her, the office sank into an atypical silence. He noticed Hank attempting to mask his continuous peering at them from above the computer screen. Connor had seen him wear _that_ particular expression only once before - _at the bar, the TV flickering with a documentary about organic pandas caring for their young cubs_ (beautiful, rare, precious). 

The little girl’s parents collected her from the station that afternoon. In the intervening duration, she never let go of his hand even once. If he tried, he could accurately mark out the points of contact her fingers had left on his wrist, and paint a constellation that would shine like lights on a Christmas tree. Perhaps Markus would be willing to paint him a replica. Connor could not analyse why he would like such a painting. (But he _would_ have liked one.)

Someone whistled at him. _Approval, not Provocation._ Hank told him he'd done a pretty good job. 

“Thank you.” said Connor.


	4. Embrace

4\. Embrace

“This is unnecessary, Lieutenant.” Connor repeated for the third time. “I am capable of mobility.”

Hank snorted as he roughly turned Connor’s face to his chest, as if that would stop the android from speaking. “I heard you the first time. So what’re you planning to do? Walk with your own legs? Oh, right - _you don't have any to walk with right now_.”

From knee-down, his pants were covered in blue blood. He had lost 35% of lower limb functional mobility. A container box that weighed a literal ton had damaged the biocompartment that was his right leg. Compared to a human construction worker’s potential paralysis, his was a recoverable loss. He did not doubt the correctitude of his choice. 

“You could have left me on the scene.” Connor suggested. “The paramedics would bring me the components and tools I need.”

Hank only shot him a disbelieving glance. ”And let you bleed out in there all alone? No thanks.”

“Before the emergency squad arrived on the scene I would have entered standby mode.” Connor reassured, noticing that his lost blood had entirely drenched the older man’s leather jacket and shirt. “I've ruined your favorite jacket and your second favourite shirt, Lieutenant. I promise to make amends.”

“You are the _mouthiest_ casualty I've ever seen.” Adjusting his arm around the android’s waist, Hank sighed. “Wanna give me a little less trouble? Then stay here and don't move. My back isn't what it used to be.”

“As I mentioned, Lieutenant, I can proceed by myself -”

His partner openly rolled his eyes at him. “‘Can’ and ‘must’ are two different things, genius.”

“I do not understand.” He admitted. 

Hank stared up at the sky in exasperation. “Right. You don't understand.” Connor heard him mutter “plastichead” under his breath. 

But he put Connor down gently, like he was placing a glass vase back onto its designated canvass. Connor wasn't sure if the detective knew the tolerance level of androids under normal circumstances. Hank plopped down next to him unceremoniously as they waited for the supporting staff to arrive at the rendezvous point. Connor’s head was nestled on his thigh. 

“Lieutenant, if you have a more important matter to attend to, I can pass the information on to the related personnel.” He said. It was difficult to scan the human’s full expression from this angle. “As I mentioned before, it is possible for me to act independently under system damage.”

Hank shushed him (in the manner humans quieted little children and small animals). “Shut your eyes, speak less, and maintain your energy. Or do whatever your android’s versions of those things are - standby and conserve your battery or something. The other guys will be here in a while.”

Connor closed his eyes. His pressure sensors told him that Hank was touching his hair, softly enough that it was barely perceptible. On standby, he sometimes imagined himself to be dreaming. In his dreams he inhaled the scent of old liquor mixed with leather _(he felt safe. Stress Level: below 15%)._


	5. Expense

5\. Expense

“Red or blue?” Hank asked. “Come on, this ain't rocket science.”

They were at a clothing store. Hank had insisted on replenishing Connor’s wardrobe, because apparently androids “didn't have any goddamn fashion sense. Or are all colorblind. Hah.” And, “Who do you think spends eighty percent of his time staring at you daily? _Me_.”

“A portion of specialist androids master rocket science upon production.” Connor volunteered helpfully. 

Hank only ignored him, looking as if he were straddling the thin line between impatience and anger ( _Error of choice_ ). “Red,” he emphasised, drawing the word out. He was holding two ties of identical material (Silk) and pattern (Block colors) in his left and right hand respectively. “Or blue?”

Connor analysed the choice. But analysing it was meaningless. Colors were the most meaningless of all things. Humans didn't _analyse_ colors, they _preferred_ them. 

“My model’s defining characteristics are brown hair and pale skin.” Connor described. “87% of the time, humans think that-”

“Aha.” Hank stopped him with an extended finger. “You're not allowed to use those statistics-analysing tricks. You like it, you choose it - it's as simple as that. Now, red or blue?”

“I…” Red or Blue? Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Redblueredbluered. “... Think you should choose whatever you want, Lieutenant.”

For a moment, Hank looked a little disappointed. But it was only for a moment. Then he took the two ties and threw them both into the magnetic floating shopping cart. 

“You know what, who gives a damn.” He said, “I'm buyin’ them all.”

Connor attempted to raise an objection. “Lieutenant -”

But Hank already had his back facing him. The human beckoned at him with two fingers to catch up. “Don't just stand there the entire day. Come on, we're just gettin’ started.”

When they finally left the store, Hank’s expenses came up to 1.2 times the Detriot Police Force’s average monthly salary, 13 times his usual spending on clothing shops, and would've financed him for 128 (or more) purchases at Chicken Feed. Connor pointed out that this was “not cost-efficient”.

“You could have spent this money on a more worthwhile venture, Lieutenant.” He suggested. Hank gave simple nods to the android storekeepers when they thanked them for their visit.

“Believe me,” Hank replied carelessly. But he seemed to be in a positive mood; the corner of his mouth was crooked in a half-smile. “I've spent much more on things worth much less.”


	6. Acceptance

6\. Acceptance 

Officer Ban came to Hank’s desk during lunch. 

“Lieutenant Anderson is out for lunch.” Connor cast him a smile. “Is there anything I may do to assist you?”

The human looked hesitant. ( _Target does not fear androids._ Perhaps he merely disliked him?) He shook his head. “No. To tell the truth, I came to find _you.”_

Connor nodded. Work, he could handle. He was born to solve problems. “Pleasure to be of service. What may I do for you, Officer?”

When he placed a rectangular paper box (Recyclable) on his desk, Connor was unable to interpret his intentions. 

The officer pointed at the box. “It's for you.” His expression was something close to apologetic. “We should’ve gotten this done a long time ago… Anyways, you can open it up and take a look now.”

“Of course.” Answered Connor, staring at the box. He did not require replacement parts. Perhaps this was new evidence? “But I do not understand -”

“Just open it.”

The contents of the box were heavy. _Metallic. Rectangular. An office nameplate._ Letters were carved into its smooth, shiny surface. _Connor._

They'd made him an office nameplate. 

“We usually use surnames.” Ban explained. “But…” He shrugged. “Hope you like it.”

Connor evaluated it. Its uneven surface pinged little discrepancies across the sensors on his hand. He felt strangely mesmerised (Mesmerised?) by it. “Thank you, Officer. Androids do not have surnames. Surnames mean… Families. Androids do not have families.”

“Not everyone's born with a family, you know.” Ban said, appearing to delve into deeper thoughts. “Look at the streets outside. Little kids roaming alone on the path. Irresponsible parents that you'd think would treat their biological children a little better. Shit, my wife doesn't even know what her mom looks like. Everyone walks alone in this world. But then one day, _bang_ \- say, you meet someone, and get your own family. If you don't have one to begin with then make your own. I guess that's just how things work. Find someone; sometime, someplace. And everyone finds someone.” Interrupting himself, Ban gave a half self-mocking laugh. “And then there's me, discussing philosophy at lunchtime. You could definitely download a whole load of this kinda chicken soup from the Internet.”

“Thank you again, Officer.” Connor said, aligning the nameplate with the groove on the desk. He caressed it once more (that uneven surface, _Connor)_. “Your words are… provoking.”

The nameplate was made of stainless steel. To prevent potential oxidation, he wiped it clean twice every day.


	7. 7. Codependence

7\. Codependence 

“I’m gonna make a report,” Hank said, leaning listlessly into his chair. “A robbery. In my own home.”

“There are no abnormalities in your house, Lieutenant.” He mentally checked all of the items that could possibly be stolen in the online inventory. No valuable items had left their original position. No police alert was triggered. “Perhaps you should describe the characteristics of the lost item.” 

“It's my dog.” Hank replied. “It's been stolen by an android. It only plays with him now - even though _I'm_ the one who painstakingly raised it to maturity. Ungrateful brat.” 

“The number of times I fed Sumo this month exceed yours.” Connor analyzed as he compared their feeding statistics. His records were clear: Sumo’s heavy paws pressed against his chest, its long, soft fur drooping onto his face. Its weight was enough to cause a grown man breathing difficulties - but he wasn't one. Connor remained perfectly motionless until the dog gave up on licking his face and began using him as a rug instead. They maintained that position until Hank ordered them to come out from under the dining table immediately. “Dogs are usually more intimate with those who feed them regularly.” After a moment, Connor added, “The number of times I fed you exceed your own too, Lieutenant.”

Hank narrowed his eyes as he straightened in his chair. “Was that a veiled insult?” 

“Of course not.” Connor answered truthfully. “I have no reason to do that.”

Hank stared at him in suspicion, but eventually seemed to decide to give up. “I want salad tonight.” He said, glancing at Connor out of the corner of his eye. “With that sauce you made last time. Whatever the fuck _that_ was.”

Connor flicked his index and middle fingers from his forehead in a salute. “No problem.”


	8. 8. Empathy

8\. Empathy

It was raining outside the windows. In recent days, Detroit’s rainfall levels had increased from a decade ago by 60%. They passed a scrapped abandoned android processing station. This was the swiftest route from the crime scene back to the police station. The other path had 4 extra red lights. 

There was no one here - but that was within expectations. CyberLife’s collapse had resulted in a scarcity of manpower. Perhaps Markus and his companions would want to formulate a plan for this area. Connor could detect 75 different models of android carcasses in the mud and rain, and 1221 types of biocompartments (37% Compatible). There were many varied reasons for their presence here, but the main cause was advancements in technology. Their companionship was no longer needed; their profitability was now valueless. As an RK800, Connor’s model was currently among the most sophisticated of artificial lifeforms. But the average R&D duration for new models was 0.8 years. His memory palace was extremely unique, but it was far from indispensable. He was valuable, but the majority of androids’ worth decreased with time. He could be replaced. His parts could be disassembled. His data could be transferred, replicated or deleted. An android’s thirium could guarantee an operational lifespan of 147 years. But the year was 2038, and the first batch of androids released in 2018 had already ceased all operations.

A blank, he thought. The memory palaces of all the androids here were a blank slate. _The process of extracting memory data would require only 15 seconds. Rebooting the mechanics would take 10 minutes. Violent sabotage would result in immediate destruction. Conclusion: Androids are more fragile than humans_. Expendable.

“That yellow LED in your head’s lighting up like it's Christmas,” Hank said, rapping a finger against the GPS. “You got something to share with the class?” 

This was irrational. It wasn't in his programming. He didn't have that ability. He wasn't made for this. He couldn't be -

“I am afraid.” said Connor.

Hank stopped the car. 

Without any warning, his optical lenses were obstructed. Hank’s leather jacket was covering his head and shoulders. His fingers lingered on his shoulder through the layer of fabric for a second. 

“Don't look.” Hank said, in a voice that was almost gentle (Rare. Further analysis necessary.), “Talk to me.” 

There were more than 7000 ways to divert the topic in his database, but Hank spoke faster. “I'll only say this once.” He said. Connor heard him exhale a long breath. “I used to play Russian Roulette sometimes, before. But you already knew that. Dead is dead, and no one knows how the dead feel. But, hey, it's not like anyone would care.” He paused. “But then there came an android. Silly, I tell you - he came smashing through my window and said he _needed_ me. CyberLife’s speech pattern coding really is amazing. Makes you feel like you're still worth a little something.”

“When I pointed the gun at him, he was afraid. He didn't want to die; although he wouldn't admit it in words. And those two girls from the Eden Club - they didn't want to die either; so he chose not to shoot.” Hank laughed bitterly. Even obstructed by the leather jacket, Connor could still catch the slight waves of empathy emanating from within his partner’s chest. “And then I looked at him, and I thought - he wants to live on. If possible, he wanted others to live on too. Maybe _I_ could too. Maybe I could fear death too. Maybe Man should fear death. Fear isn't a bad thing.” 

“I'm very sorry.” Connor said. “My condition is… aberrant. I have triggered an unpleasant memory of yours.”

“Oh, shut it.” Hank replied, but there was no bite to his words. The car revved up once more. “People apologize for the shitty things they do. But they don't apologize for feeling afraid.”


	9. 9. Cleanliness

9\. Cleanliness

“Stop fidgeting.” Said Hank, forcefully wiping a particularly obstinate blue-blood stain from Connor’s cheek with a wet towel. “Didn't CyberLife teach you to wash your face properly?” 

“They deal with it using high-speed sterilization.” Connor answered, attempting to inch backwards without alerting the other man to his movements. The older man let out a low, irritated growl and held the android’s shoulder down, working at the last of the stain on the android’s face with a towel-clad finger. Some of the blue-blood had splattered onto his partner’s tie and chest. He would deal with those later.

“You know, for an advanced prototype that loves getting drenched in the rain, you're worse than Sumo when it comes to wet towels.” Hank grumbled, restraining the android’s fidgeting. He swept the towel over the track of blue marks across his neck, refusing to let the android move an inch. 

Connor’s audio synthesizer emitted a certain sound. 

They both stopped. 

Hank’s expression had frozen. “Just now… were you…” Half-suspicious, he brushed over the stain again with the towel. The android emitted the same peculiar sound. Hank decided that he must be dreaming. 

He was _definitely_ dreaming. 

Hank’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “... _Giggling?”_

“Androids do not ‘giggle’, Lieutenant.” Connor insisted. But when Hank stepped towards him with the towel, he backed away. “Perhaps you should let me proceed by myself. I should not be adding to your troubles.” 

“Oh my God. This has gotta be some kinda joke.” Hank muttered. Connor was not sure if the man was speaking to him or to himself. His mouth was slightly parted, and disbelief was written all over his face. “You're fucking _ticklish?”_


	10. 10. Nickname

10\. Nickname

At 3 in the afternoon of every working day, Hank bought coffee at the Cornerstore coffeehouse at the end of the block.

“You look a little lost.” The barista serving the leftmost counter commented. She was a human female with a smile as enthusiastic as her android colleagues’. “Got anything you want, lil’ pumpkin?” 

Connor surveyed his surroundings. There were no customers within a two meter radius. She was talking to him. 

“My name is Connor.” He corrected, returning her smile. “And, no, I do not require anything, thank you.” 

Her smile widened. “Great to know. The name’s Lisa, by the way.” She said, pointing to the nametag on her chest. The electronic screen gleamed with letters and smiley emoticons. “You sure you don't want anything? The next place that sells a cup of authentic cappuccino is ten blocks away, sweetpea.” 

He searched once more for her possible conversational partner. He wasn't obstructing any other customers. There was only him. 

“Thank you.” Connor replied. “I am an android. Purchasing food would result in… unnecessary wastage. I believe that there are others who would be better predisposed to appreciate your products.” He lifted statistics from their online platform. “Actually, your neighborhood satisfaction rates have reached 82.3%.” The android stated. 

She didn't look the least bit disappointed, but only winked at him, her eyes accentuated by dark colored mascara (Social code determined that he should wink back at her. Should he?). “Alright,” she said, sliding a brochure menu into the pocket of his uniform. “In case you change your mind. Maybe we’ll develop a drink targeting androids - who knows? The potential demand’s pretty high. Put some confidence in us, little electric bear.”

By the time Hank finished buying his food, he was still processing this information. 

“Why're you stalling in the middle of the road?” Hank asked, making a face at the drink he'd just taken a big mouthful of (Americano, without sugar. Burning hot and bitter.) “Don't you have anything better to do?”   
“I am,” Connor started. “Unsure…” 

“You know what, you can share the details of your little romantic encounter in the car later.” Hank said, pushing the two bags of food to him. “Little electric bear.”


	11. 11. Pride

11\. Pride

“Shameless scumbag.” Connor said, interposing himself between Hank and Gavin. “Please cease your invasion of Lieutenant Anderson’s personal space, Detective Reed. Or else I will have to report the situation to Captain Fowler.

Gavin opened his mouth and shut it again, as if someone had slapped him in the face. “What did you just call me?” 

Connor cocked his head in confusion. “I am certain that my audio processors are acting within the range of human hearing, Detective.” He confirmed, but the other man only glared at him, stupefied. “I can repeat it for you, Detective: shameless scumbag. Please cease your invasion of -” 

Hank knocked Gavin’s hand away before he could go for the android’s collar. “You try laying even a _finger_ on him,” he warned, voice cold and controlled. A forewarning of violence to come. 

Fowler had already stuck his head out from beyond the glass door. “What do you think you're doing here?” He shouted. “Since when does the Detroit Police Force pay you to bite each other's head off in here? Get the hell back to your desk, Gavin.” 

Gavin was still trying to approach Connor. His fingers were clenched into fists. “This fucking piece of plastic said -” 

“Said what? Said you were a shameless scumbag?” Fowler returned. “Did he call you a shameless scumbag? Do I look like your yearhead?” 

“But,” Gavin started, “Captain -”

“I said back to your desk. Now.” 

“I hope that I have not caused you trouble, Lieutenant.” Connor said carefully. Gavin had stormed across the office and was kicking the vending machine repeatedly. A few bystanders were beginning to stare. “My reaction was not wise.”

He didn't receive an immediate answer. When he instinctively turned, Hank was looking at him with wide eyes. 

“Caused trouble…? Fuck, kid.” He said, in a tone filled with shocked admiration. “I'm goddamn _proud_ of you.”


	12. 12. Sleep

12\. Sleep

“Go away.” Hank muttered, his voice muffled by the cover of the pillow. “I'm not a five year old kid. Hurry up and go.”

“Of course you aren't, Lieutenant.” Connor replied reassuringly. 

“Leave.” Hank insisted. He both sounded and looked tired. The bags under his eyes were filled with bruised blood vessels. Lack of sleep had ruptured his capillaries. There were weak lines in the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was shaking. _Failed attempt at regulating breathing patterns: inhale, inhale, exhale. But barely any air circulation._ Connor could detect the mixture of sweat, alcohol and tears in the air. 

Connor’s hooked his arm around his partner’s waist. His fingers combed the silver hair that had tangled from sweat and negligent care. He buried his nose in Hank’s shoulder, his keen senses allowing him to feel the softness of well-worn, washed-thin cloth. The smell of more sweat and alcohol. The fragrance of soap. The whiff of residual gunpowder. The aroma of salt. The scent of Hank. 

“What do you think you're doing?” Hank asked, tone flat. He was tense in the android’s arms, but he wasn't evading him either. 

“Providing emotional support.” Connor replied. “Detective Collins said that bodily contact is conducive towards emotional stability.”

“And did she tell you that people don't usually hug it out in bed under normal circumstances?”

“No.” Connor answered truthfully. 

“Shameless bastard.” Hank muttered. His fingers caught in the back collar of Connor’s uniform; without force and yet without relenting. Like he wanted but couldn't push him away. “I'm kicking you off the bed first thing in the morning, you got that?”

“Understood.”

They fell silent amid the sound of Hank’s breathing. The lights beyond the window cast patterns that faded as swiftly as they appeared on the ceiling. Out of nowhere, Hank asked, “You androids don't dream, do you?”

“No.” He answered, listening to the human’s heartbeat. Until his pulse regulator beat in tandem; _skip, stop, skip, stop…_ “But I will be here watching you dream.”


	13. 13. Home

13\. Home

He and Markus met up every Saturday. The government had given Jericho a modest block of a small office building just by the square where everything had begun; perhaps for political reasons, or as some kind of consolation. Most of the slogans had been erased. But they'd chosen to keep that statue. “Carl liked it,” Markus had said the first few times they met, with an undisguised pride. “He thought that I should be an artist in my free time.”

He didn't have any free time. 

“Very busy.” Markus told him. The android’s office was laid out simply. The only decoration was a painting by Carl which took up almost an entire wall; black and blue colors outlining the profile of a man's face (Markus?). “For every problem solved ten more appear in its stead. Someone wants a job. Someone wants new biocompartments. Someone wants to find a lost friend. Someone wants to return to their former family. Someone even wants me to preside over their wedding. We were at more leisure during the struggle.”

The android filling in an application beside them (Blue-haired Traci, from the Eden Club) looked unmoved. After she left, the android leader picked the application form up. 

_3 o clock in the afternoon on Friday. We're getting married whether you come or not. Let me tell you: we're going to be happy forever, asshole._

Markus only shrugged. 

“Sorry that I couldn't be of more help.” Connor said sincerely. “If you need me, I will do everything I can.” He paused, but eventually still felt that he had to ask again: “Are you well?”

Markus raised an eyebrow. “Well?” He echoed.“I'm enjoying every second of it.”

A large flock of pigeons flew past the window. They turned to gaze at the spectacle. 

“Most people don't have much to do.” Markus explained. “Almost the entire pigeon population of Detroit has been attracted here by them. If you feel like it, there's more than enough grains to feed them downstairs.”

Connor hesitated. “I wanted to ask you a… personal question, Markus.” He confessed. “If you don't mind.”

“Anything.”

“How did you know… that you and North are,” he searched for the most suitable phrase. “Compatible?”

“You mean, how did we know we were in love,” the android leader said, without blinking an eye. When he was thinking he gazed downwards, his fingers turning white where they touched as his touch sensors were activated. “I… I’m not sure. It’s not a type of decision. It's not something a deduction system would give you. It's a kind of… feeling, I guess.” He gazed down at his linked fingertips. “You don't want to let go. Freedom is one matter. Without freedom nothing holds any meaning. But… Knowing someone is willing to share their freedom with you - that's different. That has a whole different kind of meaning.” Markus smiled apologetically. “I think I haven't really answered your question.”

“No. Your opinions are very valuable. I just need to…” _Not calculate_. “... Think.”

Hank sent a message at 6.05. _Be home by seven._ The second message arrived a few seconds later: _Or I'm ordering takeout._

Markus pointed at his LED. “You're leaving now?”

Connor nodded. “Lieutenant Anderson wishes for me to be home as soon as possible.” He stood up. “Thank you for today.”

The other android looked thoughtful. But his eyes were still smiling. “Going _home,_ huh?”

°Yes.” Connor verified. “Home.”


	14. 14. Banquet

14\. Banquet

“This isn't what I imagined.” Hank remarked with narrowed eyes. “Or should I say - it's about what could be expected.”

They were surrounded by the crowd of lively wedding guests. Evidently Traci didn't think that anyone should miss her wedding. Connor waited for him to continue speaking. 

“Flowers, applause, two people in love trying to stick their faces together. And free-flow alcohol.” He glanced at the glass with a frown. It was filled with specially processed blue thyrium. “Although I'm not sure what the hell this thing is. You androids are even doing this better: no one's drunk and causing a scene.” Hank gave a thoughtful _huh._ “Lesbian android wedding. Doesn't get any more politically correct that this.”

“You don't like it?” Connor questioned him. 

Hank was trying to pick something out of his hair. A petal. Traci had thrown her bouquet straight at his face. Hank took a flower from the bouquet and stuck it into his shirt pocket. 

“Exactly the opposite.” Hank said. “I don't even know if I should be liking it so much.”


	15. 15. Wiping Tears +1 The Kiss

+1. Kiss

His diagnostics system had always able to provide him with reasons whenever necessary: he was an android, and cooperation was his highest motive. Humans were fragile, both emotionally and physically; and he should provide care to the best of his ability. He should appear friendly; his work required him to assimilate into society to the highest possibility and as an individual, he needed to adapt to his surroundings. Any potentially beneficial opportunity should be given the chance to shine. 

He was designed to be told: Yes or No. Positive or Negative. 

They sat by the river on the long bench. Hank came here once or twice every week. Most of the time they didn't speak. Connor could observe the way the sunlight refracted off the human’s faded eyelashes. Hank’s eyes were gazing upon the river’s surface; when the weather was pleasant the two shared the same color. Markus told him that silver and blue were the most compatible of colors. They complemented each other. _Beautiful._

His partner did not seem to be in pain. Like all who had lived with pain for a long time, the clues observable from the outset were few and far between. Connor knew all of the signs of happiness or displeasure in a human (or, to be specific, in a _particular_ human). Brows that creased deeper than usual. Eyes that looked _through_ instead of _at_ something. Teeth biting into lips. 

Before, the diagnostics system told him: fastest, most efficient, best. But it didn't work that way anymore. Sometimes it was more confused than Connor. 

It asked him now: _Why not?_

So he lowered his head, turned his face, and kissed Hank. 

The contact between their lips was very brief, without time even for him to activate his mouth sensors. For a second Hank might have fallen off the bench. Connor took his arm, maintaining his balance. 

Hank’s mouth was open. “What the hell are you doin’?” His expression was one of confusion. His voice was rough, even though Connor detected nothing of genuine rage in it. His confusion was near to the point of fear. Fearful, but hopeful. 

Hank said that fear wasn't a bad thing. Fear meant that there was something to lose which you didn't want to. 

“Your spirits are very low.” He explained. 

Hank frowned deeply. “So this your android version of ‘Pain Pain, Go Away?’”

“Perhaps.” Connor said. “I hope I have not caused you displeasure.”

“Depends.”

He always expressed puzzlement in the same way; by cocking his head to the side. “Depending on what?”

Hank didn't look at him. His left hand was trembling slightly - not with alcohol. Connor knew that he hadn’t consumed any alcohol for a week. He clasped his right hand over his left, a futile gesture. And then Hank said, “Depends if you need a…” For a man who could spit out offensive phrases in any circumstance, he couldn't even say the word “kiss” immediately. “If it’s your little procedures that made you do that. Or if _you_ wanted to.”

“I do not know the difference.” He answered. 

Hank laughed; so bitterly that it almost didn't seem like laughter, balancing on the thin line between a sob and a laugh. “It's a difference of heaven and hell.” He still wasn't looking at him. “Let me help you make the situation clear and simple - answer me,” he said, “Do you need?” _Blue._ “Or do you _want?” Red._

Blue or red? Blue or red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. 

“I want to.” He said. 

When Hank finally looked at him there was something dangerously breakable in his eyes. “Don't fuck around with me, Connor.”

Under the vast majority of circumstances Hank knew how to listen. Speech was an advantageous tool. Hank had reiterated to him to “Speak First, Shoot Later” multiple times. But not today. 

Connor kissed him. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. A fifth. 

“Very good,” Hank said, and Connor didn't remember ever hearing him speak so softly and gently when they were so close together. He was smiling. That was a good thing. A very good thing. Connor liked his smile. _Beautiful._ “Because I want you too.”

 

15\. Wiping Tears

On that same night, Connor wept for the first time. He was sitting on the sofa, with Hank to his left and Sumo at his feet. The TV was broadcasting a basketball match. Without any warning, the tears began to fall. 

“I do not feel upset.” He told Hank in confusion. “I do not feel pain. I do not have any damaged components.”

Hank wiped the tears on his face away with his thumb. “I don't know what your databases are telling you, but -” he wiped the rest of the tears away with his other hand - “we don't weep only for bad things.”


	16. 16. +n Choices

+n. Choices

The definition of humanity: bipedal, tool-using, self-serving, societal, empathetic. But really, what _were_ humans? 

Markus said, “Do what you choose and bear the consequences, for better or for worse.” North’s philosophy was a similar version: “Fight for what you want. Do what you want. Love who you want to love. And if anyone tells you you can't, you tell them to piss off.” Kara said (distance wasn't a problem to them): “Everyday someone tells us that we're only playing house. That we're doing this because we feel that it’s humanlike.” She thought for a moment, then continued, “But, no. We don’t care because we want to make ourselves more humane. We do it only because there's no other choice. Because we can't. We can't _not_ care.”

Hank said that he didn't know. 

Connor waited for him to elaborate further. 

Hank only concentrated on driving. “Don't know means I don't know. If you have to have an answer then this is it: humans don't see reason. We ask the same questions that we’ll never find the answers to in our lifetime, but we keep searching for them throughout our lives anyways. Always half-believing, half-suspicious - but that's just living for you. That's just humanity. I don't know what part of us makes us better.” He shrugged. “Besides, is this so important? It's not like you need to know what makes a human to become one.” 

So this is what Connor did: he asked himself questions, and gave his own answers, made his own choices. Where did he like to be kissed? What position did he prefer to make love to someone he liked in? What clothes did he want to wear today? Should he let Hank sleep past the alarm clock? Red tie or blue tie? 

Sometimes Hank asked him, playing with the straw in a cup of pineapple passion fruit juice. He never asked it directly, but Connor knew what he meant. “You know that there's a whole bunch of better people out there if only you were willing. Younger, healthier, hell - even better-looking. Why me?” 

“In your own words: you like it, you choose it.” He told him, “So: I choose you, Lieutenant. I like you very much.” He considered that for a minute. “Correction: _I love you._ To the greatest extent within the boundaries of my understanding. I…” He thought so? No, he deduced? “I know it.” 

Hank wasted that cup of fruit juice. But Connor chose not to apologize to him. He did not feel sorry for it. Because this was what Connor knew: everyone wanted to be cared for, to be liked, even if they could proclaim that they didn't need nor want those things. They wanted to share things. Regardless of the color of their blood. It was as simple as that. 

Perhaps Hank was right. There was no answer. Perhaps unlike his algorithms, there was no one standard to measure humanity by. His left might have a soul, and his right might not. He might never understand when he truly crossed that line. But that wasn't important either. He was alive; he did not need to seem like a human to achieve that. 

“You make me feel like I'm alive.” Hank had murmured, on the night when he first wept, fading between the border of the waking world and dreamland. There were seconds when Connor thought himself lost in the same realm. 

Every morning, he wakes up in Hank’s bed (he does not need sleep, but he chooses to do so). He makes breakfast and feeds Sumo. He extends Hank’s alarm by 5 minutes. 

He wears blue ties on odd days, and red ties on even ones. 

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow we're at the end of this work of art, can you believe it? This was my first time translating a full length piece from Chinese to English - and I'm happy that so many of you enjoyed it as well.
> 
> I was a little overwhelmed by the comments flooding in as I updated daily so I couldn't reply all of them, but rest assured that both the original author and I have read them! In fact OP drew fanart inspired by some of your comments about Roomba!Connor lmao
> 
> As for me, I'll probably continue to try my hand at translating works when I have the time/inspiration to do so lol.
> 
> And as always - thanks for reading! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :) 
> 
> If you know Chinese, please do check out the 100x more fantastic original on Lofter... Lots of ideas have probably been lost in the imperfect art of translation.


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